<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>my kingdom come undone by fcngs</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636803">my kingdom come undone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fcngs/pseuds/fcngs'>fcngs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Dream is a villain after all), Achilles and Patroclus parallels bc im insane, Angst, Dethroned king George, Domestic, Don't Have to Know Canon, Dream Smp, Dream and Tubbo are brothers bc i say so, Dream cashes in on that favour, Dream is a god, Dubious Morality, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of canon compliant?, King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Mushroom house domesticity, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Set after the final destruction of L'Manberg, Slow Burn, Techno cameo for plot reasons, There’s medieval au vibes, Touch-Starved, apathetic king george, basically an explanation for why george doesn't show up to any wars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:08:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,839</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fcngs/pseuds/fcngs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A cottage in the woodlands, miles from the embering ruins of L'Manberg, conceals a dethroned monarch and a man who will do everything in his power to keep him safe. </p><p>Dream is no hero, but he suffers a fatal flaw all the same.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>536</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my kingdom come undone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was born from my mourning of the king george and knight dream dynamic, and how i feel dnf could exist within dsmp lore. also, this is less canon-compliant due to recent streams where it seems dream is a dreamon. we're gonna pretend he is Not in this one; instead, he's a god :)</p><p>title from 'hoax' by taylor swift. this is about dsmp characters, not necessarily ccs.</p><p>light warning for depictions of violence, description of scars and wounds, blood mentions and brief swearing. nothing is detailed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite his Godliness, he’s an unfinished monomyth still, and by the time he’s nearing the cottage he is unchanged aside from a limp under the stress of a few broken toes, presumably crushed by falling debris as he left the ruins of L’Manberg. </p><p>He’d tried to take it all in as he walked away, trailing his sword’s tip along the rubble; the elimination of these people’s livelihoods.</p><p>He thought he’d feel victorious, and he does, to an extent, but there’s bone-deep tiredness laden behind his eyes that he can’t shake, something ancient in his core begging for a slumber, not of sleep, but of <em> rest. </em> Real, true, sanctifying rest. He knows where to find it. He left it waiting for him.</p><p>There’s sunset, and then there’s dusk, and before them both the sun doesn’t shine behind his hero’s head like a halo in the way he always imagined it would. He’d told Tubbo that, once, when they were children, him fourteen and Tubbo just ten. That in all monomyths, a hero will step into the sun once their fate had gripped them and that was when they knew they were truly valiant.</p><p>He hadn’t even known if it was true; hasn’t ever read mythology, really, and only knows of one hero. One too similar to himself that it makes his chest burn when he thinks of it at all.</p><p>He shakes the thought, muttering, slashing his sword through the foliage of nearby trees to pour leaves down on his shoulders in a sad, slow rain.</p><p>No ties to anyone, he’d told himself when this had started. No connections. It’s why he’d left Sapnap and his knights in the first place and chosen a careful distance; why he’d chosen Punz and Sam as his aids. Why he’d ensured Tubbo would never recognise him, his voice, his presence. Wouldn’t remember him at all.</p><p>Why he’d dethroned George.</p><p>And yet here he is, on the path to a place he thinks of as <em> home</em>. Hadn’t that been curious, when Technoblade had accused him of not having a home? Maybe God’s aren’t supposed to have homes. Technoblade had laughed about it, and he’d tried to control his temper. He’d been sleeping rough; Techno was right about that. But that doesn’t mean he has no home, per se.</p><p>He wonders if the man waiting for him would let him call it home.</p><p>He mounts the crest of a particularly steep hill and sees it just through the woodland. The cottage looks warm from afar; small lanterns have been lit just outside the red door and fireflies circle them slowly. The gate to the garden is slung wide, propped open with a loose brick.</p><p>He veers down the hill, careful not to tumble with his crushed toes now numbed. As he draws closer, he can tell the curtains are drawn in all windows but one; the kitchen, dimly lit from within with candles. A sense of comfort seeps into the intercostal space between his ribs, filling him up. Something soft he is undeserving of, maybe, but something soft all the same. He curls a palm into his chest and continues walking.</p><p>When he reaches the door, he considers his sword. He stares at his blurred reflection in the blade, grasping it with a bone-white grip, before taking a deep breath and throwing it into the bushes framing the entrance. He doesn’t want to bring it inside. There is something sacrilege about it.</p><p>He limps forehead, pain flaring behind his brow with every beat of his sinful heart, his foot crushing a red mushroom sprouting just in front of the door.</p><p>A soft knock, a stumble backwards, a door creaking open.</p><p>George looks exhausted. His eyes hold something heavy in them, something that is dulling them, bruising shadows beneath them. He’s shivering slightly. Dream has the possessive notion that he needs to keep him warm somehow, and quickly. He could’ve sworn the cottage looked warmer from a distance.</p><p>George’s cheeks are gaunt, his hair an inch longer everywhere since Dream had last seen him. Suits him. George blinks at him, lets out a breath, and walks back into the cottage, leaving the door ajar.</p><p>Dream follows him inside.</p><p>The candlelight casts shadows across the walls, distorted kitchenware and trinkets George had brought with him transformed into dragon silhouettes.</p><p>George reaches for him timidly, eyes searching his mask in that careful way as if he’s trying to ask a question without having to ask. Dream sighs into the touch, George’s hand coming to his neck, smoothing up his skin and into his blood-matted hair.</p><p>Before now, George might’ve cried, he thinks. Now, George’s stare is steely and challenging. His hand drops from his head and he takes an abrupt step backwards.</p><p>“What have you done, Dream?” There’s no malice to his voice, but there’s a disappointment. It gauges open a trench of discomfort in Dream’s stomach. “Why are you here?”</p><p>Despite himself, his hubris gets the best of him, and he smiles sadistically. “Did you hear the TNT, George? Did you hear it? Constant, constant. God, it didn’t end, did it?” He licks his lips. “It’s all gone.”</p><p>George swallows thickly. His eyes flit toward the window, toward the ruined L’Manberg, and Dream’s eyes follow. There’s still smoke billowing from the ruins, visible even from here. “Dream.” Even through Dream’s mask, their eyes seem to lock again, a heavy thing. As if George can see right through it. “Why are you <em> here</em>?”</p><p>Dream wants to tell him without conceding anything, without proving to himself that he’s failed the careful plan he had constructed in all his destruction. “Because I told you I would be.” He limps forward a few steps, pressing into George’s space.</p><p>George’s eyes immediately drag down to Dream’s bad foot, and he shakes his head, letting out a little huff and flashing a half-smile. “You haven’t really changed, you know,” he muses sadly, slinging one of Dream’s arms over his shoulder and gripping him around his waist to lead him into his bedroom. </p><p>He deposits Dream onto his bed and starts scuffling around for medical supplies in various cabinets scattered around the room.</p><p>“Remember when I did this when we were kids? All the time. You <em>way </em>more than Sapnap. I think you liked being hurt a little too much.” He hums as he holds up a vial of red liquid to the candlelight and swirls it. “And Tubbo would always cry so hard. So worried about all the blood.” He lowers his hand slowly and shakes his head. “Anyway.”</p><p>“I liked it when you took care of me,” Dream tells him, ignoring the mention of his brother. “Made me wanna take better care of you, too. Are you cold?”</p><p>“What? Oh, um. A little, I guess. Nights have been getting colder lately.”</p><p>George comes back over and kneels in front of him, carefully lifting his foot and starting to unbuckle and then shimmy his boot off. Dream observes quietly before he starts to work off his chest plate, bloody fingers fidgeting with the straps.</p><p>“Hey, hold still,” George says, finally tugging off his boot and with it his socks, and wincing at the obviously deformed shape of his broken toes. </p><p>Dream finally removes his chest plate and shucks off his hooded pullover in one swift motion, cautious not to knock his mask, leaving him in his thermal turtleneck. George catches the motion and glances up at him, and Dream holds the pullover out.</p><p>It’s a wordless exchange, with George slipping into the warm fabric with nothing more than a huff of breath, Dream’s eyes tracking his movement. There’s no need for George to ask if Dream will be cold now because he already knows it doesn’t matter to Dream. At least Dream assumes he already knows.</p><p>He asks him to drink the red vial even though his pain had dissipated earlier, and Dream weakly point outs, “I’m not sore. I have ichor in my veins, you know. It’s pretty damn strong.”</p><p>George smiles. “My will is stronger. Drink the potion.”</p><p>He won’t argue with that.</p><p>Once George has his foot carefully wrapped and set, he places his supplies back into their cabinets and pulls the hooded pullover’s sleeves over his hands, leaning back against the wall to observe Dream. “Did anyone get hurt? Badly?”</p><p>Dream thinks of Tubbo, fallen to his knees, conscious but barely as TNT dropped from above and fell just short of the platform he was gripping onto. Technoblade pressing his sword into Quackity’s chest, the second scar Techno would gift the man, a missing eye and sharp bolt of stretched scar tissue marred into his face a reminder of their previous encounter. Sapnap breathing heavily with a deep flesh wound pouring crimson from his lower abdomen, keeled over with the effort of not collapsing. The channel of slashed skin Tommy wore on his left cheek, blood flying from his mouth as he screamed at Dream. </p><p>“It doesn’t matter if they did. It’s over.”</p><p>George makes a low noise in his throat. “Did anyone <em> die</em>, Dream?”</p><p>“No.” He wishes they had. “Why do you care, now?”</p><p>“Are you finished? With all this?”</p><p>It’s a loaded question. He looks out of George’s bedroom window, stares at the red and brown mushrooms growing in the back garden.</p><p>He imagines George picking them to collect them in a jar for decoration or to use them to cook, cutting their stems and checking for decomposition.</p><p>He imagines what it might be like to have domesticity; George in his pullover for a different reason. Them barefoot and bruised in the kitchen, making breakfast, hips in close proximity. Fingertips always skirting over pink flesh, over freckles, over lips and tongues and teeth. Splaying together in the garden under half-moons. </p><p>George has never been that for Dream. And he can’t be, he thinks; not now, not after everything. It’s logical, he reasons with himself, that he doesn’t destroy what is already fragile with the want that burns low in his chest.</p><p>George had said, once, after Dream had dethroned him, that Dream should just tell him he hates him. And he thought for a second that if he did, it could all end. All this <em> mess </em> that Dream was forced to wade through when George’s mouth lifted just there. It could finish, finally, and he’d be weightless. Free to curate entropy without anxiety creasing his brow over the damning thought that <em> maybe George will decide to come, today. Maybe he’ll show up and I won’t be able to stop him, maybe he won’t listen to me, maybe he won’t be safe.  </em></p><p>His eyes pull back to George, raking the length of his body, taking him in. Safe. Here. “No. Not yet. But I’m finished for- for now.”</p><p>“You left for so long.” The statement hangs between them, the smudges of sleeplessness under George's eyes a testament to the weight it holds. He crosses his arms in front of him. “How did I know you weren’t-”</p><p>“They can’t kill me,” Dream says, “I promise you, they can’t kill me.”</p><p>“I asked you not to go.”</p><p>That had been weeks ago. Dream feels the thick, burning tar of regret in his throat.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>It’s enough for George, and he pads over to where Dream sits on the bed, standing in front of him. His hands come up to his face, and Dream’s breath stutters in surprise before he realises he’s only reaching for the straps of his mask.</p><p>“Can I?” George murmurs. “Need to check you aren’t cut under there. You never know where shrapnel can reach.”</p><p>Dream ducks his head in invitation, and George unclasps the charred white mask, letting it fall to the floor beside him.</p><p>His eyes lift, green seeking brown, and reach George’s properly for the first time tonight. George smiles, so <em> kindly</em>, it’s a slap to the wrist.</p><p>He is so undeserving. He knows this. He chooses not to act on this, though. He’s always been selfish.</p><p>George’s hands come up to cup his jaw, thumbs sweeping across his cheeks, one of them settling into the groove of scarring that strikes down his left eye, impairing his vision ever so slightly. George’s are the only eyes that have seen this secret. Dream sinks into the touch, starved of tenderness.</p><p>George clears his throat, tapping Dream’s right cheek with his thumb a few times. “Looks all good.”</p><p>“I need to wash my hair,” Dream muses as George’s hands fall away from him and he steps back. “You mind?”</p><p>George’s expression is unreadable. He licks his lips. “You’re staying, this time?”</p><p>Something sharp lodges under Dream’s lungs, and it feels suspiciously like relief. “Yeah. If you’ll have me, I guess. You know why I did what I did.”</p><p>“To keep me safe?”</p><p>“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” </p><p>George looks furious. He rubs a hand over his face, which is reddening rapidly. “I was <em> worried</em>, Dream.”</p><p>Dream grins, standing up to his full height, seven inches towering over George, and leans easily against the wall beside him. “Has the great apathetic King finally found that he <em> cares</em>?”</p><p>“You don’t get to make jokes like that after you dethroned me, arsehole.” George takes a steadying breath, but Dream can read the relief radiating off of him in waves. They’re okay. “And I’m only apathetic when it comes to taking sides.”</p><p>“Am I not a side?”</p><p>“You’re my best friend.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“Not even returning the sentiment? Man, all that ichor really did change you.” There’s amusement in his voice, and a hand goes to Dream’s chest, pushing him slightly.</p><p>Dream laughs. “I destroyed a nation for you, George. Let’s not go there.” When there’s a stifled silence, Dream continues.  “Or we can go there? You’re upset.”</p><p>George hums a little sadly. “I was King of that nation. It’s all gone, now.”</p><p>Dream scoffs. “Where’s that apathy? It’s what they deserved. After everything. And, well. It was fun. But necessary, too.”</p><p>“Sure it was,” George sighs. “I don’t doubt that.”</p><p>“I don’t think you understand.” Dream pushes himself from the wall and turns his body to face George. “They’re dividing this place. Dividing the peace, and dividing us. It’s not <em> all </em> about how entertaining it is, George. It’s about protecting the only thing I have left. The only family I have left.”</p><p>George cocks an eyebrow.</p><p>“That’s you, idiot.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>There’s a beat of tranquility, and then George falls forward and clutches Dream’s torso, head burying in his chest. Dream’s lungs collapse, and he wraps his arms around George’s tiny frame and holds him tight to his chest, resting his chin on his head and swaying them gently, eyes screwed shut. </p><p>They stand there for a little while, breathing each other in, until George releases him a little and smiles lopsided. “I missed you, you know.”</p><p>He peers down at him. Considers that no matter how many violent situations he finds himself within, only George can raise his heart rate to these heights, can raise it at all.</p><p>He knows how many apologies he owes George; counted one night, tallies in the mud with a loose branch, hunched over a small fire in a copse of trees near Logstedshire. Considering all he’d done, deciding for George whether or not forgiveness should be bestowed on him. It was a defining night, if he’s honest with himself, because before he hadn’t ever let himself traverse to the depths of what he feels for George. He is selfish. Disgustingly so. He has never wanted anything like he wants George, and that terrifies him.</p><p>Dream isn’t sure if George knows. That he’s a man that could bring a God to his knees, trembling, unhesitant to beg.</p><p>Dream pulls him back in, comforting warmth and the pine wood smell of George’s hair. “I’m sorry, George. I am. Thank you for staying here. Thank you for listening.”</p><p>“We take care of each other now, okay?” There’s a smile in his voice, and Dream’s heart clenches. George wouldn’t smile at him if he knew the things Dream had done. George wouldn’t even touch him.</p><p>“I won’t let anything bad happen again.” <em>Anything bad happen to you</em> is left unsaid.</p><p>George releases a breath. “I know,” he says softly, muffled by Dream’s chest. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>He wakes on George’s bed, sheep wool pulled over his chest. It’s early dawn, dust particles swimming through the orange glow that seeps in through the window, and Dream is grateful he no longer has to concern himself with anything other than George, curled tight against his chest under the wool where they’d gravitated toward one another in their sleep, hands eaten by the arms of Dream’s pullover.</p><p>He has the dizzying thought that it will smell like him once it’s returned, and he has to lay his head back down for a beat.</p><p>He should never have allowed George to coax him into this bed, hushing gentle reminders of his bad foot and tender body, excuses as to why sleeping on the floor would be ill-advised. He'd been convinced, but he knows it's not the way a God should behave.</p><p>He untangles himself from George and clambers up, rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head. Stares at the bundle of George on the bed. Shaky breath. And then he leaves the room.</p><p>He checks the bushes outside to assure himself his sword is untouched, then begins to butter bread for breakfast. George joins him shortly after, hair smoothed over in his sleep so much so that Dream can’t help himself from ruffling it, tufts sticking up in all directions. George laughs and waves him off, and Dream slides into a chair at the kitchen table with his plate.</p><p>There’s a wooden vase on the table, very small as if hand carved, and inside are three rotting flowers, drooped and withered. “Why have you got rotten flowers here, anyway?”</p><p>George raises his eyebrows and slides into the chair beside him. “Really?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You gave me those. When- the flower shop. In L’Manberg.”</p><p>Dream remembers. Dream doesn’t want to remember, not really. Doesn’t care for remembering Fundy anymore than he strictly has to. It was a bad decision, albeit a decision made for peace. Sometimes he thinks how perverted it is, that Fundy wants him dead now, if Fundy’s feelings were ever true.</p><p>He can’t imagine ever wanting George dead, or in any harm at all.</p><p>“I can get you new ones,” Dream says, palm cupping one of the crumbling yellow petals. “Today, even. Hey, we could both go. Little walk through the woodland. Explore. Oh! We could pack some food. I can make a fire, and we can wait ‘til sunset if you like. You told me you’d finish telling me all the constellations, back when- yeah.”</p><p>George is smiling, and Dream likes to think it’s a fond smile, although he assumes that’s him projecting. “That would be nice, Dream.”</p><p>“I’ll need to check the area and make sure it’s safe, first.” He pushes back his chair abruptly. “I could do that now. I should’ve done that yesterday. Fuck. Why didn’t I make sure-”</p><p>“You checked before you left all those weeks ago, and it was fine,” George says exasperatedly.</p><p>“Yeah, <em> weeks </em>ago. Who knows who could’ve found you, set up some little camp somewhere. Technoblade’s known for scouring around unclaimed territory.” Dream’s limbs vibrate with urgency. His eyes flash yellow, ugly, piety sloshing behind them. “Who knows who else. I need to go, now.”</p><p>George stands up quickly, gripping Dream’s forearms in a vice. He shakes him. “You need to snap out of this. I’m fine. I’m <em> fine </em>. Look at me. Look at me.”</p><p>Dream’s vision focuses. “George.”</p><p>“Yeah. Me. Hey, sit down. Calm down.”</p><p>“I’m gonna be ready this time, George.”</p><p>“It was just a house, Dream,” George says, hand coming to Dream’s cheek, guiding them both back down to the kitchen chairs. Dream nestles into the touch, pathetic, and he feels reduced to someone Greece would be embarrassed to call a hero. “And you took care of it for me, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me, alright?”</p><p>Dream doesn’t answer, because that isn’t a promise he can make. </p><p>“Dream,” George starts, soothing. “Maybe we should talk about this. About why you’re doing this.”</p><p>Panic seizes his throat, because to dig into the depths of his motivations, graze the substratum of them - George would turn away and run. “No- no, we don’t, it’s okay, I’m done for now. I told you that.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Dream wants to say <em> just let me protect you, goddamnit, </em>but he holds his tongue. George’s hand falls away from his cheek. As if reading Dream’s mind, he adds, “I can protect myself well enough, you know.”</p><p>“I don’t doubt that. I’ve never doubted that,” Dream placates, meaning every word. “But it’s safer for you to have me.”</p><p>George takes a large bite of his bread and mumbles through his full mouth, “What’s a God like you doing with a mortal like me, anyway?”</p><p>“You’re so dumb,” Dream says fondly, kicking his foot under the table.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t listen to George.</p><p>After breakfast, he tells him to get food ready for a trek in the woodlands while he sharpens his sword. George complies, easily teasing as they wash up their plates, hips brushing, treacherous thoughts wafting into Dream’s mind.</p><p>When George exits to use the bathroom, Dream pulls on his mask, boots, and leather gloves, slings a bow and quiver around his chest, and closes the red door as quietly as possible behind him.</p><p>He knows he has to make quick work of this, hilt of his sword gripped tight with his other hand firm against his clothed thigh where he’s slipped his knife.</p><p>He stalks through the woodlands surrounding the cottage, agile, his foot having healed completely except for a dull, distant ache just at his heel, a phantom pain.</p><p>He’s almost about to wrap up his inspection of the area, content with its barrenness, and satisfied with himself for choosing such a hidden corner of this world for George to reside in, when he smells it. An ashen, molten stench.</p><p>A fire, or the remains of one. </p><p>He follows the smell, retracting his knife and flipping it in one hand, prepared to stab if necessary. The trees are closer in this stretch of the woods, and he refrains from slashing through branches for the sake of stealth, slipping past them quickly. </p><p>Eventually he comes to a small clearing, a smouldering fire that’s just been extinguished in the centre. There’s a fallen tree with a heavy wool blanket draped upon it and supplies littering the surrounding grass. A sword is propped against the tree, the hilt a glimmering purple.</p><p>Dream would know that sword anywhere.</p><p>“Techno?” He calls. “Come out, Techno. I’m not playing your games.”</p><p>There’s a deep bark of laughter from the left of the clearing, and Technoblade stands, leaning against a tree with one broad shoulder. A half-smile plays on his lips, sharp bottom canine teeth protruding. “Dream,” he rumbles, sinking into a mocking bow. “A pleasure, as always.”</p><p>Dream sheathes his knife and lowers his sword, stifling a sigh. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you back at your house?”</p><p>Technoblade shrugs. “I wanted to come find you after L’Manberg yesterday, but you left pretty darn quickly.”</p><p>“I had somewhere to be.”</p><p>“Mhm.” Technoblade steps toward Dream. “And where was that?”</p><p>Dream ignores him, kneeling to the fire and touching fingers to the ash to distract himself, trying to figure out the duration of its burning. “How long have you been here?”</p><p>Technoblade comes beside him, sitting heavily on the fallen tree atop his blanket. “Ah, not too long, don’t worry, Dream. Why, was I close? How close was I?”</p><p>There’s a smirk in his voice, and Dream holds himself back from the verbal bite he so desperately wants to deliver.</p><p>Technoblade had fooled him, yes. But Technoblade had turned around and abandoned Tommy at the last minute, just to evoke anarchy. Their interests align, somewhat. Dream has the opportunity to gain an ally. To gain a friend.</p><p>But he won’t allow himself to move past the blatant disregard for his privacy that Technoblade seems to have. For <em> George’s </em>privacy.</p><p>“Go home, Technoblade.”</p><p>“Now, now, now,” Technoblade says, leaning back, blowing a strand of long pink hair from his eye effortlessly. Dream can see the outline of a dagger strapped to his ankle, under his grey pant leg. “I thought we were on the same <em> side </em>now, Dream. I thought destroying that nation really brought us together.”</p><p>“Why were you tracking me?” Dream asks.</p><p>“What are you hiding?” Technoblade shoots back.</p><p>“You’re not privy to that information.”</p><p>“So you <em> are </em>hiding something. What, a weapons base, armoury? You have a secret stash, Dream? You got more plans for destruction?”</p><p>“You finished what you set out to do,” Dream says, “What more could you possibly want? Wasn’t there a time you were retired?”</p><p>“Did anyone die, Dream? In L’Manberg, did anyone <em> die</em>?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Technoblade smiles. “Maybe more bloodshed would be healthy around these parts.”</p><p>“There’s no more governmental system, Techno. There’s no more fucking nation.”</p><p>“Abolition of power is all I wanted,” Technoblade says. “But that’s not to say I can’t have personal vendettas. And fun. Don’t act like you don’t agree. Think of what we could <em> do </em>with this place, Dream. Don’t tell me you’re finished already.”</p><p>“I’m not. I’ve made it clear I’m not finished with Tommy. I still have his discs, after all. He’s not finished with me.” He sits back, just in front of the fire, running his sooty fingers along his chest to wipe them clean. “But I’m laying low for a while. I have a spy to keep me updated, anyway. A lot of people wouldn’t be fond of seeing my face right now.”</p><p>“Literally no one is seeing your face, ever,” Technoblade says, flicking Dream’s mask. </p><p>Dream groans. “I’m just- they can’t find me. I can’t let anyone find me until I’m ready.”</p><p>“You’re some type of God, are you not? They don’t stand a chance against you if they do. Especially if you have me on your side.”</p><p>Dream knows that, logically, but he’s not concerned about himself. “Techno, I wanna cash in that favour.”</p><p>Technoblade bristles, clearly taken aback. “Now? Out of all the times, now? Really? I’m sure there’s better times to cash in favours with the likes of myself, Dream.”</p><p>Dream bites his lip, considering briefly, before nodding once. “Yeah, now. I don’t- I’m not gonna use it, otherwise. I don’t know when I’ll next need your help. Could be months.”</p><p>“And in months, you might need to cash in a favour,” Technoblade points out.</p><p>“I might. But I’ve gotten this far without one and I can get further without one, too. It would make everything a lot easier if I knew I could count on you for this.”</p><p>“Go on, then. Reveal to me your great plan, or whatever.”</p><p>“It’s not- it’s not a plan.” He lets out a low sigh, and avoids the other man’s gaze. “I need you to promise me you’ll keep George safe.”</p><p>Technoblade is still, and eerily silent for a beat. Then, “What? What?”</p><p>“George,” Dream reiterates, as if it’s by way of explanation. “Keep him safe. If- if I ever have to go somewhere far. Or if I’m somehow caught or killed. I know I won’t be soon, but I need to have the reassurance that he’ll be okay. They’ll target him.”</p><p>Technoblade laughs, and Dream flinches at the abrasive sound. “And would you like your bones buried beside his too, swift-footed Achilles?” </p><p>Dream’s throat tightens, his eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t want to have to ask you again. And I shouldn’t need to justify myself.”</p><p>“Hey, it’s fine. I get it. Well, I don’t, but that’s okay. If that’s all, then fine. That’s easy.”</p><p>Uncomfortable with the jest in Technoblade’s tone, he lowly demands, “Even after I’m dead, Techno.”</p><p>He turns to look at this man, large in all respects, gashes marring his face in every direction, and finds a softness in his eyes, just barely.</p><p>“Even after you’re dead, Dream,” he replies, genuine. “I promise you that.”</p><p>Dream nods once, and stands up. “Favour officially cashed in, then. How will you know where to find him?”</p><p>“I’ll find him,” Technoblade says decisively.</p><p>“Go home, Techno,” Dream says, turning to make his way out of the clearing, satisfied.</p><p>A few seconds later, he hears Technoblade yell from behind him. “Say hello to Patroclus, for me.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>George is in the garden gathering mushrooms when Dream returns. His face lifts when he notices Dream approaching, and Dream opens his mouth to explain before George interrupts the apology he’s about to make.</p><p>“I’m thinking of making soup for our picnic,” he says, mushrooms falling from his arms. </p><p>Dream leaves his weapons in the bushes again and pulls his mask to the side of his face before hastening to assist George. “Sounds good. I’m sorry I left.”</p><p>“I knew you would,” George says. “We’re safe, yeah?”</p><p>“I was talking to Technoblade.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>He goes to the kitchen and deposits the mushrooms he’s taken from George onto the table, raising his voice to be heard from outside. “Yeah, cashing in on a favour. Told him I’m laying low. He says hi.”</p><p>“Does he know where we are?” George leans a shoulder against the doorway, watching as Dream sorts the mushrooms into their species. </p><p>“No. Not yet. He will, but it’s okay. We have a pact.” </p><p>“Spare me the details, Dream, you’re bombarding me with so much information.”</p><p>Dream laughs. “He’s making sure we can lay low safely, okay?” He puts down a mushroom and stalks toward George, crowding his space. “Just us, now.”</p><p>Dream takes George’s small hands into his own and twirls him around, eliciting a snort of laughter. “Come on, Dream, we should make the soup for that walk.”</p><p>Dream ignores him, placing one of George’s hands on his shoulder and slipping one of his own onto George’s waist, rubbing little circles with his thumb as he sways them erratically.</p><p>He hums a tune, and feels a cloak of gnawing restlessness and swimming nerves slip from his shoulders, something Dream can only ever shake when George is smiling in that way he does, with cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling. </p><p>This slice of peace is welcome. He knows, as he twirls George again and then brings him close, George’s hand sliding from his shoulder to the nape of his neck to scratch at his hair in slow strokes, that he’s sinking into this security.</p><p>That this is something he would come back to every day. Every fight. That this is something worth fighting <em> for</em>.</p><p>“I think of this place as my home, you know,” he murmurs. “I thought of that while I walked here. Thought of it as home.”</p><p>George places both of his arms around Dream’s neck, pulling their chests flush and pressing his face into Dream’s shoulder, hot breath against his neck.</p><p>“Hm. Really? It’s small. Not much room for all your weapons and armour and stuff. You’ll need somewhere else, surely.”</p><p>He feels so unguarded. Enough so that he says, mind glossing over in a fog of thoughts of the man in his arms, “There’s room for you.”</p><p>“Shut up,”  George replies, but there’s laughter under the surface of it; giggles bubbling in his throat.</p><p>Dream knows he doesn’t think he’s serious; knows George assumes that he’s being playful, making those jokes he used to when they were younger and Dream had less to hide.</p><p>“What are you gonna do during this ‘laying low’ thing?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Dream replies honestly. “Plan ahead, I guess. Get ready for what I’m about to do.”</p><p>George disentangles his arms from around Dream’s neck and gives him a pointed look. The nape of his neck mourns the heat of George’s palms. “You deserve a rest.”</p><p>“This <em> is </em>a rest.”</p><p>George tsks, and Dream rolls his eyes and draws him back in smoothly, dipping him slightly. His cheeks flush pink. They stare at each other, faces so close that Dream can feel George’s breath against his lips, heartbeat rabbiting with every slow inhale and exhale.</p><p>Dream wants to clench his war-torn fists around the moment and refuse to let it slip by, but he’s sure he’ll shatter it if he does.</p><p>“We should go, before midday,” he whispers, gaze flitting between George’s eyes, confusion evident in his calculating stare.</p><p>“Yeah,” George whispers back. His brows knit together, and a hand reaches up to pull down Dream’s mask over his face again. Separating him from Dream, a wall of wooden disguise between them. “We should.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>“It’s going to be a starless night,” George comments.</p><p>Dream cradles his wooden soup bowl in his gloved hands, cross-legged beside a smouldering fire. “Oh. How do you know?”</p><p>George leans back on his forearms, his green woollen cloak slipping past a shoulder. It’s Dream’s cloak, with a large hood for when he needs additional anonymity, but he’d draped it over George as they’d left, drowning him in the heavy fabric. George had apparently liked the warmth and decided to keep it on.</p><p>Dream likes it on him a little too much.</p><p>George’s smile is coy. “I just <em> do</em>. I’m incredibly intelligent like that.”</p><p>“Ah, Georgie, how could I forget.”</p><p>George lets out a surprised little noise in the back of his throat. He’s staring at the sun, seeping into the navy sky with smeared rays of oranged pinks, behind the hill Dream had stumbled down the previous day.</p><p>“Didn’t you tell me, once, that a hero will know they’ve fulfilled their destiny once they’ve stepped into the sun? Or something like that.”</p><p>Dream scoffs. “That’s just something stupid I used to tell… I used to, um. As a bedtime story. I made it up.”</p><p>“Hm. I think it might be true.” George looks at him, teeth working at his lip.</p><p>Dream’s throat tightens. “George,” he begins, wanting him to understand. His conscience and George are intertwined inexplicably, a fact that is an enigma in and of itself. George pulls him back from the tide - makes him feel foreign things, a rung of regret in his stomach. But for George he’d slaughter, shatter bones. He already has. He has yet to. “I’ve done so many fucked up things,” Dream says. “And I <em> enjoyed </em>doing them, George.” </p><p>He’s uncomfortable with the humility in his voice. George replies, “I know.” And then, with more conviction, “I don’t care.”</p><p>Dream feels a chill wash over him briefly, realisation of what he’s done - what he’s <em> corrupted </em> - settling into his bones.  </p><p>“You don’t mean that,” he says.</p><p>“You know I do.” George closes his eyes, and Dream’s nerves are eased as he revels in the sight of him basking in the sun. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about anyone in this place.”</p><p>Dream lowers himself to mimic George’s position and lets his eyelids flutter closed. “Except me, right?”</p><p>George is silent, but they both know the answer. They bathe in each other’s presence like they bathe in their fading spot of warmth. A patch of solace after a lifetime of discomfort. </p><p>They’re soundless until the sun sinks below the hill and the inky blanket of night washes over the skyline. “No stars,” Dream murmurs, gazing at the half-moon that’s unveiled itself since the sun’s demise. </p><p>“Told you,” George murmurs back, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. He pulls Dream’s cloak around himself more firmly.</p><p>“Idiot,” Dream quips, voice impossibly soft. He imitates George’s position once again, before scooting closer to him so their shoulders are pressed firm.</p><p>George exhales slowly, and with strengthening resolve, fits himself into Dream’s side securely and rests his head against his shoulder, curled into his chest. Dream wraps both arms around George’s frame and buries his face in his hair, breathing him in.</p><p>“You’re going to kill me,” Dream says. </p><p>It’s an exaggerated jest, of course, but Dream is no stranger to death. He’s let death lead him out into forests, into battles, into ravines and caves and underworlds continuously.</p><p>It’s taken him by the hand, it’s caressed his face. He’s smelt the charcoal of it. He has been on the cusp of a tragic denouement more times than he can count; the Machiavellian villain, prepared to die for the justice of this scripted story. </p><p>And yet it’s this that feels like a life, ending. Holding George in his arms. This is a part of the story that is unscripted. This is a part of the story that the villain is never allowed to touch. He doesn’t think he’d confess it, even if he found the strength. It’s heavier than any armour he’s ever had to carry on his bruised back, than the jewels that once sat atop George’s soft hair, marking him as someone with power. Power over L’Manberg, power over Dream.</p><p>The crown suited George.</p><p>“I’d never let that happen,” George says, “You’d be too difficult to kill, anyway. You have more moves than me. I’d just blindly stab you and then there’d just be a mess.”</p><p>“I think you’d manage okay.”</p><p>“Maybe. I could definitely fight if I wanted to, you know.”</p><p>“I’m glad you don’t.”</p><p>“I know that.” He shifts so his back is flush with Dream’s chest. The distant ache at Dream’s heel begins to throb. “So I’m your weakness, then?”</p><p>Dream smiles into George’s hair. “That’s a dangerous assumption to make, don’t you think? I’m a God. I can’t have weaknesses.”</p><p>“Not denying it. Okay.”</p><p>It’s teasing, and the atmosphere is light, but Dream feels this conversation tipping onto the edge of a confession. “You already know the answer.”</p><p>George turns his face, looking up at Dream with half-lids. He seems to steel himself. “When you dethroned me,” he begins, “I thought that was it.”</p><p>“George-”</p><p>“I thought, he hates me. He truly hates me. I’ve lost him. All that history, everything we’ve been through. You’d thrown it away, for what? Power?”</p><p>“George, I’ve al-”</p><p>“Let me finish,” he says, bringing a hand to Dream’s mouth, then letting it slip away. “I tried to rationalise it to myself. Sapnap was so convinced you’d done it for control, because I wasn’t staying neutral. Because Eret would bend to your will. I believed it.”</p><p>He turns back around, looking forward. “And I think I thought I hated you. But I knew that wasn’t true. I used to think, if I tell him the truth, will he regret it?”</p><p>Dream freezes.</p><p>“Will it make him <em> beg</em>?”</p><p>“Yes,” Dream whispers to him, automatically. </p><p>There’s a heavy beat of silence. George is staring at the half-moon, and Dream’s eyes are tightly shut.</p><p>“I’m sorry, George.”</p><p>“I didn’t want another apology, Dream. I’m just telling you. It’s weird how it all worked out. I didn’t believe myself, when I thought you’d come back to me.”</p><p>“You’re the only thing I’ve ever felt regret over, I think,” Dream says.</p><p>“Not even Tubbo?”</p><p>“I don’t regret that. I can think about what once <em>was</em>, but. It’s not what is <em>now</em>.”</p><p>George reaches a hand back and smoothes it through Dream’s shaggy hair. “You’re a little less insane with me,” he teases.</p><p>“You ground me.” It should be an admission of failure, but it feels anything but. If Dream were smarter, he’d have allowed George to be killed by now. He would have forced himself to stop caring, stop George prying open the saccharine part of his being with gentle fingers. The logical thing to do; no weakness. No easy routes to hurt him. But it had never been that simple.</p><p>George presses his nose to Dream’s neck. “I ground you?”</p><p>“Well. Yeah.”</p><p>George snorts. “That’s pretty powerful of me.”</p><p>“You have <em> no </em>idea.” Dream’s grip tightens on George’s body. There’s a strain of possessiveness to his voice when he says, “I’m not leaving again, okay?” </p><p>“Why me?” George asks, small. “Why me, and why just me? What about-”</p><p>“I thought you didn’t care about anyone else.”</p><p>“I don’t. I’m just trying to understand.”</p><p>Dream takes a long breath. “When I was deified,”  he tells him, “I thought I was dying. And your face was the only thing I could think of. I wanted you to be safe.”</p><p>He’d been dragged from the depths of slumber and sunk into the lake, divinity crawling into his bones. Emerging from the water dripping nectar, eyes flashing yellow, ichor in his veins. You would think a newborn God would tear the sky apart, but in his first few moments of sanctitude, Dream went to check that George was still sleeping soundly. </p><p>Tearing the sky apart would come later. It had already came. He’d found his reason.</p><p>George twists in Dream’s arms, placing hot palms against his cheeks. He kisses him. Dream knows he understands.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment if you have the time, especially if you have any criticism!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>